


Easy Living

by awkwardsoviet



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Concord, M/M, Nuka-World, Sanctuary Hills, The Commonwealth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-15
Updated: 2018-05-15
Packaged: 2019-05-07 06:37:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14665377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awkwardsoviet/pseuds/awkwardsoviet
Summary: One-shot written in ~3 hours (without spellcheck) because I love Preston and my SoSu a lot. Kind of an explanation for the matching summer shorts I made them wear on their "honeymoon" to Nuka-World after reaching max affinity.





	Easy Living

Preston lounged lazily on the cracked cement, watching Houston through dark sunglasses as the sun beat down overhead. Houston was occupying himself with the Junk Jet, a whole duffle bag of prize toys found in the Nuka-Cade, and several bottles of Gwinnett Ale they’d brought along. 

It was their third day in what remained of Nuka-World. Houston had insisted they step away from the Castle for some time together, but it also doubled as a way to lay low out of the reach of the Institute, and tripled as a distraction from the revelations found there. Preston worried about Houston as he took a sip from his bottle and another plush sloth went rocketing into the sky. After everything he had gone through to find Shaun, how much did the truth hurt him? How did his own son asking him to abandon the Commonwealth feel? 

Preston knew it would come out in due time, content to just enjoy the lazy day and find joy in Houston’s loud, near-maniacal laughter at the moment. Some of the raiders had gathered around the artificial lake to watch, curious and more than a bit confused by their Overboss’ actions. Preston was still uncomfortable with the raiders in the park, and especially uncomfortable with the slave collars they so freely used. It seemed that even this “vacation” as Houston had called it was just more work in a different place. 

Dogmeat bounded over with a playful yip, splashing into the calf-high waters to chase an airborne teddy bear. Houston, more than a little tipsy and without much of a filter, also gave chase, ending in an intense tug-of-war battle and stuffing exploding from the poor bear. 

Houston trotted back to the shoreline, the now vivisected toy held high above his head, Dogmeat jumping enthusiastically. “Hey, Pres, think fast!” 

The wet conglomeration of fabric and button eyes slapped Preston squarely in the chest with more force than expected. “Oof,” he breathed with a chuckle as Dogmeat wrestled for his prize. Preston obliged, watching him saunter away satisfied. 

“So,” Houston began, plopping down next to Preston gracelessly. “You wanna give it a try?” 

“Launching 200-year-old toys into a radioactive lake doesn’t exactly sound like my idea of fun,” Preston chided. 

“Well then, what is your idea of fun, Pres?” Houston slurred, his hand subtly reaching for Preston’s thigh. 

Preston swallowed hard and looked at the raiders around. They hadn’t been together long—at most, a month—and he was still uncomfortable with sharing a bed, let alone showing any affection in public. It wasn’t a concern over discrimination or even unprofessionalism, it was something deeper he just wasn’t ready to confront. He gently placed his hand over Houston’s and moved it away. “You better change out of those wet clothes, General.” 

Houston sighed audibly at the use of his official title. “Why don’t you help me, Commander?” 

Preston blushed as he followed Houston to the elevator to Fizztop Grille, taking the Junk Jet from him and slinging it over his own shoulder. “I’ll help you carry this, if that’s what you mean.” 

Preston delighted in the sly grin crossing Houston’s face. He reached around the General to press the “UP” button and caught him by the waist as the platform staggered to a slow rise. Houston responded by tucking his head against Preston’s shoulder and chuckling, mumbling incoherent thoughts as the pair reached the top of the artificial peak. Preston ensured his commanding officer was safely in the cold, barely-functional shower stall—carefully avoiding his eyes as he stripped down—then retired to the patio, the Junk Jet stored away in a steamer trunk. He lounged comfortably on a tattered armchair and allowed himself a moment to think. 

Four months ago, a confused, scarred man in a vault suit had wandered into Concord, an energetic dog in tow. Preston and what remained of his group from Quincy were pinned down by a hail of gunfire from Raiders, who had now penetrated the Museum of Freedom and were advancing from all sides. Preston’s initial reaction to the newcomer was of near-indifference, and he only hoped the man would find adequate cover until the firefight died down. But between dodging .38 rounds and serving his own, he noticed the stranger quietly picking off Raiders with clean, quiet headshots from an upper-story window.

“Hey, you!” Preston shouted, watching his fellow Minuteman take a round to his chest, “grab that laser musket and help us, please!” 

The stranger didn’t speak, but after clearing the path to the museum, did as he was told, taking the extra time to check the pulse on the man outside. After some heavy fighting inside, the stranger reached Preston’s group. He unlocked the door and let the man inside. Up close, Preston noticed every detail on his face, including a scaly burn scar across his nose. The stranger in the vault suit looked harrowed and worried but still smelled very slightly of aftershave with perfectly coiffed hair hanging loosely above his brows. He holstered his pistol as Preston held out his hand. 

“I don't know who you are, but your timing's impeccable,” Preston began, taking the man’s hand and noting his firm grip, “Preston Garvey, Commonwealth Minutemen.” 

“Houston Reid, uh…Vault 111, I guess.” 

“Vault 111? Haven’t heard of that one yet,” Preston commented. “A month ago, there were 20 of us, Yesterday, there were 8. Now we’re 5. First it was the ghouls in Lexington. Now this mess. We figured Concord would be a safe place to settle…those Raiders proved us wrong. We do have one idea though.” 

“Well…one good idea can make all the difference,” Houston responded, sounding like his answer came from experience. 

Sturges then spoke up, telling Houston the plan to retrieve the power armor and mini-gun from the Vertibird. 

“Power armor typically takes special training, but…shouldn’t be to hard to just rip a gun off a plane, right?” He chuckled, eliciting a tiny, weary smile from Preston. 

“Actually,” Houston began, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, “I have experience.” 

Preston let out a low whistle at this. “Didn’t think the vaults were that armored, but I’m sure glad we found you.” 

The rest is considered Minutemen history, at least to those present. Houston not only took out the remaining Raiders, but also stopped a Deathclaw in its tracks, opening the way to Sanctuary Hills for Preston and his settlers. When they arrived in the bombed-out suburb, Houston gravitated towards one particular home close to the center of the street. After talking with Sturges and Mama Murphy for the plans for shelter for the night, Preston let his curiosity take him into the home, where he found Houston seated on the charred red couch, the helmet of his armor removed, his hair damp with sweat.   
“Hey,” Preston announced, “mind if I come in?” 

Houston nodded but didn’t turn his head, choosing to stare fixedly at the long-dead television set in front of him. 

Preston came around the couch, choosing to sit in the armchair next to the TV. “I just…really wanted to thank you for what you did for all of us back in Concord. You could have just kept walking but instead…you chose to save those people’s lives. And mine. And now you’ve given us a place we can eventually call home.” 

He sighed and waited for Houston to respond, whose eyes remained on the television screen. Feeling awkward, he continued. “I mean, look at this place. I really think this could be what we've been looking for. And that’s all thanks to you.” 

“I used to like living here, before the war,” Houston deadpanned quietly. 

Preston reeled. “What do you mean? Before what war? Are you saying...” 

“What do you think I'm saying?” 

“Well,” Preston began, removing his hat and running his hand over his hair, “That you're from before the war. The Great War. Like one of those old ghouls you sometimes run into. Is that true?” 

“Yes... sort of. I was born over 200 years ago, but I was... frozen or something for most of it. Just woke up a little while ago, in Vault 111,” Houston clarified, locking eyes with Preston. “This was my home. I was sitting in this room when we were told Chinese missiles were in-bound. I got my wife and our newborn son and made it to the vault just in time.” 

“Jesus,” Preston whispered, silence befalling the room like dense fog. “So, where are they now? Your wife and son, I mean.” 

Houston stared at the floor, grimy and peeling. “Someone kidnapped my son, shot my wife. Killed everyone else in the vault, too. Some, cryogenic malfunction or something.”

Preston knew how it felt to be the last survivor, to stand against this cruel and demanding world alone, to face endless unknowns and fight for everything owned. He thought of Quincy and winced.   
“I’m…sorry, Houston,” he said after some time, “I’ll give you your space, but just know that you’re always welcome in Sanctuary, should you choose to leave.” 

Houston nodded once more, drawn silent by the weight of the world he once knew collapsing into rubble. 

Preston slipped out the door and into the dying light, setting up his bedroll in a house across the street with the other settlers. That night, he thought about Houston as he scavenged what was left of the town, and when he couldn’t sleep, he silently watched the blue building, hoping Houston would stay. Come morning, however, he was gone. 

Preston didn’t hear the door to the patio open, nor did he notice Houston behind him until a pair of scarred arms encircled his shoulders and a dry kiss was planted on his cheek. 

“Babe look what I found,” said Houston, stepping forward and proudly displaying his outfit—a striped, purple blouse with high-waisted, canary yellow shorts, his signature militia hat, and a pair of white-rimmed sunglasses. 

“I guess that other guy—Colter or whatever—must’ve had some lady friend leave it behind and I don’t quite feel like sitting around in a vault suit so…whatcha think?” 

Preston stifled his laughter as long as he could, then stood and wrapped his arms around Houston, laughing into his shoulder. “It…looks great,” he wheezed before nearly collapsing in a laughing fit once more. 

“Hey,” Houston cooed sternly, “Don’t laugh too hard. I found a matching set for you.”

Preston laughed even harder, reveling in the wonderous absurdity that became the stranger in the vault suit, feeling weightless and giddy and loved, so loved by someone who had lost his entire life but was willing to take a chance on a rag-tag group of settlers, by the General, by Houston. 

And when the two of them—plus Dogmeat, of course—took on the Raiders of Nuka-World a few days later, they did so in style, with canary-yellow shorts and white-rimmed sunglasses. 

And Preston smiled his first real smile in months.


End file.
